


A Family Portrait

by poetesmaudits



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Blood and Injury, Canon Era, Character Study, Gen, Healing, Period Typical Attitudes, Platonic Relationships, Post-Barricade, Romanticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetesmaudits/pseuds/poetesmaudits
Summary: As the barricade falls, les Amis flee. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac meet again in the sweltering heat of the south.
Relationships: Combeferre & Courfeyrac & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac & Marius Pontmercy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	A Family Portrait

**Author's Note:**

> content warning: although i don't go into gruelling details, this fic contains descriptions of injuries and mentions of illness, drinking and smoking, so please be careful while reading this! take care!

When Combeferre makes it back to his rooms on the sixth of June 1832, a certain calmness passes over him. There is no one. The room is just as he had left it, only now inhabited by long, winding evening shadows that crawl along the hardwood floor and up the walls. Pamphlets have flown askew over the floor with the general alacrity of those who had been in here two days earlier. The floorboards under which his guns were stored are still open, revealing a gaping, secret hole. Clothes are still hanging from the back of his little desk chair. His dishes have not yet been done. Everything is normal.

It is shouting in the street that brings him back to reality. He locks his front door, takes one deep, tremendous breath that seems to traverse his entire body, exhales shakily, ignores the tremour in his hand, and then sets himself to work. The exhaustion is present, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he manages to push it away for now, to postpone that feeling to a later date. He lights a fire in his little stove, burns the pamphlets and any writing that could potentially betray him, removes his sticky, dirty clothes and, carefully, stuffs his blood-stained shirt into the fire. He then readjusts the floor boards, pours water into his wash-basin and scrubs his hands with an almost saintly patience for the best of ten minutes. They're roughened from the fight, covered in tiny cuts and burns on the knuckles. The grime behind his nails won't quite go, but he doesn't have sufficient time ahead of him and so he moves onto the next task.

He finds clean clothes, pulls his trunk into the middle of the room and shoves all he considers essential in it—clothing, money, books, and, sentimentally, the dead Goliath frog he keeps in an unusually large mason jar. He does not try to think about what happened to his friends—whether they have made it to safety or not, whether they are even still alive or not—he does not want to think about it because he knows he will, otherwise, forget himself—another thing he currently has no spare time for. So he keeps going. He asks his portress to hire a cab for him, he brings his trunk down, has the time to rapidly bring back the books he had borrowed from the library, writes a letter to M. Béziot, his instructor at Necker, explaining that his mother is ill and he has to visit her down in the south (he is careful to date it to three days earlier to avoid raising suspicion), and then leaves.

It takes five days to travel by stagecoach from Paris to Montpellier, which is longer than what it requires for a telegraph to cross the country—rumours, however, circulate even faster. There is no doubt the whole south will know about what happened in Paris upon his arrival, and the local authorities will be on the lookout for any new suspicious inflow. Combeferre travels under his mother's name, Telliers, for additional precaution.

When he arrives in the street where his mother resides, a rather dark, narrow road in the historical centre of Montpellier, trapped in a maze of labyrinthine medieval streets, two steps away from the police prefecture, he is prudent. It is twilight and the whitewashed buildings reflect a warm, orange light that the greyness of Paris lacks. He knocks, someone makes for the door. It is his mother.

“You!” she says, and from the look on her face, she understands what has happened, for quickly, she pulls him in, and she brings him in a tight embrace, and soon she is crying; “You didn't! You didn't!” and his two sisters come down to see who is making their mother weep thus way.

-

Courfeyrac estimates himself lucky to live close-by to where the barricades were erected. He makes it back arm in arm with his friend Marius who won't stop repeating “You're wounded! You're wounded!”; an unnerving ordeal and the last thought Courfeyrac wants on his mind. But Marius is worried. Marius is afraid. The coat of the cold zealous revolutionary he had previously worn has fallen off, Marius is terrified; so they march on. He can feel through layers of clothes the painful sting of the wound, every step, every movement redoubles this cringing pain and he cannot curse himself enough for having gone to the barricades dressed the way he has (he has lost, along the way, a hat, a cravat, a cane and a coat, although his only regret is the cane... and also maybe the hat).

Marius has a head-wound which Courfeyrac has tried his best to bandage with said cravat earlier on, but the blood will just not stop dripping. This is also unnerving. Courfeyrac offers him his handkerchief when it becomes too unbearable to watch. Marius takes it.

They reach the 16, rue de la Verrerie, mount the stairs and ignore the landlady's gasps and additional “What happened? Messieurs, where have you been?”

“Just a little brawl,” answers Courfeyrac dismissively as they make for the stairs, “Nothing to worry about.”

“Should I call for a doctor?” asks the lady.

“It won't be necessary, madame. I thank you nevertheless. A coach, however, would not be declined.”

They reach the door to their shared rooms, which Marius has forgotten to lock by inadvertence, and Courfeyrac throws himself on the first seat he sees while Marius makes for the lounge chair. They wait a minute, catching their breaths, and Courfeyrac can feel his heart beating with such vigour it pounds in his ears like a drum. He's alive. _He's alive_. And Marius is right there, and he joined them, and he fought like a devil, and _dear Lord_ , they've made it. Courfeyrac, absurdly, begins to laugh, first just a bubbling little chuckle before gradually falling into a hysterical, unstoppable fit of laughter that in truth he understands not the nature of. Marius, perplexed, stares at him for a moment as though he has gone mad (which, arguably, he has), and then when he sees that Courfeyrac is fine, and—just— _laughing_ , laughing like a madman, he smiles albeit confusedly.

“I,” says Courfeyrac when slowly he gains his senses back and is wheezing to catch his breath again, “Am fine. Only an uncontrollable joy seems to have taken over my body at the sight of us two in here, at the idea of being with you in this moment, my friend. We're alive! Do you realise? _Alive_!”

“Yes,” answers Marius, “I do.”

Courfeyrac jumps from his seat, decidedly ignores the searing pain in his side, and says: “Oh! Come on, we must hurry! It will not be long before someone finds out and calls the police. We must leave. Help me undress, will you? I'll heal those naughty cuts on your forehead in exchange.”

Marius slowly stands up, pale and dizzy looking, and slowly helps Courfeyrac out of his waistcoat, revealing thus the large bloodstain that has seeped through his shirt, corset (which appears to have snapped in the back as it falls pathetically to the floor), and his trousers' waist. _Christ!_ There was considerably more blood than what he had anticipated. The clothes would decidedly be irrecoverable.

“Euh,” says Marius for a lack of better words.

“The washcloths and bandages are in the toiletry cabinet.”

“Maybe we should call for a doctor, Courfeyrac.”

“Nonsense! I'll be fine,” he answers, and Marius blinks, seems awfully torn in between disobeying his friend and doing as he asks, but then ends up limping towards the small bathroom connected to their bed chamber. He soon comes back with a washcloth, a bowl of water and bandages, then, with the almost chilling serenity of a well-practiced surgeon about to perform a leg amputation, he removes his coat and rolls his shirt sleeves up, and then, slowly, peals the blood-soaked shirt off the wound. Indeed there is a nasty looking gash at the hip where Courfeyrac was shot. He sighs. It is quite painful, though he suspects the remains of adrenaline still manage to dull his senses a little bit. When Marius touches it, however, Courfeyrac lets out a bark of pain accompanied by a series of colourful curses, and his friend immediately stops, looking at him for confirmation to carry on. Pontmercy then continues, but is considerably more careful and gentle in his moves.

“The bullet is still lodged in there,” he states, and Courfeyrac sighs, “You're going to get septicemia if you don't get that treated.”

“I will, as soon as we're out of this hell hole.”

They together fix a solid, tight bandage that will have to hold for the remaining of the day. Courfeyrac helps Marius dress his own wound and tells him to lie down, as the poor fellow is very clearly concussed, and Courfeyrac finds fresh clothes to put on.

He sets fire to any compromising pamphlet and letter he has lying around the apartment much like it has been agreed on amongst the members of les Amis de l'ABC, then starts shoving all of his most prized possessions in his trunk. He worries, he worries about himself, but also about Marius. His friend can't stay here and the Masure Gorbeau is far too unsafe to allow him to move back in there. And yet he can't take him with him to the Périgord, his family will simply not allow it. The thought of even having to travel down south himself to momentarily return to his childhood home is disheartening no matter how many fond memories he has of that place, for he has grown accustomed to the sweet taste of liberty and independence, he has grown accustomed to this Romantic existence he has been leading for the past few years by his friends' side. Returning home would mean going back to mother and father's rules. And this in itself is an excruciating ordeal.

He's already gritting his teeth at the idea of having to see his father again and what the man will have to say; the unpleasant remarks and comments he will evidently feel obliged to make, the looks of constant disdain and discontentment, and Courfeyrac needs to pause and take a few deep breaths whenever the frustration becomes a little bit too intense—he in truth doesn't know how will his father behave, he shouldn't put himself in such a state before having even seen the man.

He wishes he could stay here, maybe rent out a little room somewhere with Marius where they wouldn't risk being denounced; but for now it is far too dangerous. He knows his first floor neighbour dislikes him, and as friendly as his landlady may be, she cannot keep her mouth shut for the love of God, Mary and Jesus.

Courfeyrac shuts his trunk.

“Marius!” he calls, but gets no response. He makes his way to their bedroom, where Marius has collapsed on his stomach, head pressed in the soft feather pillows. He's still wearing his grimy clothes from the barricade, but there isn't enough time to change now. He adopts a kinder tone; “Come on, Marius, my friend, we must go.”

Marius mumbles something incoherent while barely opening his eyes. Somewhere deep in his brain Courfeyrac remembers Combeferre telling him one should never let a concussed person sleep without any professional medical assistance beforehand, but it's too late now. Marius will be fine. Courfeyrac ends up shaking his friend's shoulder a little bit to rouse him, and Marius, half unconscious, rises as Lazarus, before mumbling a string of illegible words.

“Yes, yes, come on,” says Courfeyrac, and he helps Marius down the stairs to the coach that has arrived and is waiting in the street.

He receives help from the coachman with his trunk and brings down the case containing all of Marius' earthly belongings. He has to think quickly. Pontmercy has already fallen back asleep in the cab. Courfeyrac pulls out his friend's wallet from within his filthy coat, finds the abominable letter now rendered useless, too similar to the one Courfeyrac had written himself in the event of his own death. On the crumpled piece of paper Marius has scribbled the address of his grandfather.

Before he can overthink any idea of his, he tells the coachman to drop Marius off to the rue des Filles du Calvaire. Marius is too tired to even notice. Courfeyrac is overcome with a different kind of pain at the knowledge that he is delivering his friend to the hands of a man who has already caused him so much sorrow, so much grief, for he knows how awful this Gillenormand has been to Marius, he knows what sequelae Marius was left with after running away, and he feels that ball of guilt in his stomach, heavy and nauseating.

Perhaps he will be able to find him a room through correspondence once he will himself be safe in the Midi—yes, that's it. Marius' eyes are rolling back in his head and Courfeyrac has to talk to him constantly despite his own exhaustion to keep him awake. Sweat is gathering on his forehead.

“You'll be all right, my friend, you'll be all right.”

He will be. Courfeyrac will find a solution, as he always does.

The road to the Périgord is long and tedious, and Courfeyrac ends up having to stay for a while in the Maine when it is clear his wound is too serious to be neglected any longer. He finds a hostel in Le Mans, writes a letter addressed to his older sister explaining his current situation, calls upon a doctor to get the bullet lodged out, pays him generously for his silence, falls ill, and awaits Lady Fate.

A week later, his sister debarks in Le Mans with their mother, by which time Courfeyrac is delirious with fever and pain—the wound is infected, of course, and there is nothing a good doctor can do other than clean the wound regularly, apply pointless poultices, and let a little bit of the infected blood out. They call upon a priest for his last amends when they believe the decisive moment to have come, but Courfeyrac's fever somehow, miraculously, abides the very next morning. His mother believes it is Lord's biding, the doctor says it is the humours. They leave a week later when Courfeyrac is no longer in mortal danger and make route to the family estate. There, Courfeyrac is confined to bed rest.

His father does not come to visit him.

-

Enjolras sends a letter ahead of him to forewarn his parents of his arrival. He explains in thorough details the events that have transpired, his role in said events, and therefore the cause of his early return. He tells them that he has already given back the keys to his rooms to the landlord and that, if they wish to write to him, they shall do so to the address he furnishes herewith, under the alias of _Simon Boussingault_. He receives his mother's pressing words to come home as quickly as he possibly can during his stopover in Châteauroux, and he arrives the very next evening in Limoges.

A great many castles that had once belonged to aristocrats were, in the French countryside, sold to bourgeois families during the Revolution, traditionally after a few heads had rolled and the aristocratic family no longer had the means to maintain an entire castle. There was, in the Limousin country, a certain number of estates of the kind which had been deserted by the aristocracy and were put on sale by the State. In 1795, the domain of Outrevent was sold to a Swiss family of bankers named the Schretters, who decided to invest in the property and sold it, twenty years later, for twice the price, after having made considerable renovations inside the castle itself, as the former inhabitants had been living in rooms that had not been changed in two hundred years. This is how it came in the possession of the Enjolras family in 1820, after Enjolras Sr., made a sudden and consequential fortune in cheap remakes of Limoges porcelain, accessible to the middle-class.

The castle of Outrevent is rather traditional in its architecture and resembles a large farm more than a castle in its shape, built with the region's white stones, and equipped with a thin, very charming little tower on its east flank, thus giving the humble abode a more mythical, more empowering allure.

Enjolras is affected with a certain aversion for this estate acquired through the exploitation of the working class, something which he has just come back from fighting on the barricades.

His mother greets him warmly, embraces him as closely as she can as she kisses his cheeks and reminds him how dangerous his actions were, how scared she was upon receiving his letter, how they would have to find a solution to his current situation, for surely it is too dangerous to stay here.

His father embraces him as well, albeit not as emotionally as his mother, lets go, places a firm hand on his son's shoulder and, as the fervent republican he has always been himself, congratulates him on his patriotic exploits—he has done the right thing.

They do not speak of the only son's return to the estate to anyone. The domain is wide enough for curious neighbours not to notice his presence despite the long hours he spends in the park contemplating the recent events and their ensuing consequences. When he grows tired of the park, he moves to the vast green fields neighbouring the area. He regularly loses himself in thoughts and does not see the flight of time; often he sees the sun at its zenith, and, in the blink of an eye, it has fallen to the edge of the world, painting the horizon, the sky and the land a magnificent shade of red. Enjolras embraces it. It offers his troubled mind a sensation of immense tranquility and peace when he most needs it; he has received no news of his comrades, knows not whether they're alive, lying in prison, or safe in their own country homes.

For now, he awaits anxiously of their word.

-

The days in Montpellier are quiet and uneventful, spent in the hot southern blaze of Summer with very little else to do than roam through the streets, consumed by one's own grief and fear. Combeferre worries, of course. Enjolras has sent word of his safe arrival, so have Prouvaire and Bahorel. Words of Feuilly, Joly and Lesgle have also been noted. But none of Courfeyrac nor Grantaire have come through. It drives Combeferre mad.

Multiple times in those three weeks he considers taking a train back to Paris to investigate, but his mother will simply not allow it. She's still angry at him for what he has done, for what could have (but hasn't) happened, for having almost left three women behind with little means to support themselves—his two sisters are still unmarried and his mother is an aging school teacher. Often she makes unpleasant remarks, which she herself knows are unpleasant, but which she utters nevertheless, for she will never forgive her son for what he has done. Or so she says.

She often complains about the danger of his stay, says he should hide abroad, perhaps at the old uncle Alvise's house whilst things calm down in France. Combeferre reassures her and tells her he will be gone as soon as he gets the pass from Enjolras to meet him elsewhere. His mother remains unconvinced.

“I don't know what to tell you other than what you already know,” she says on one night, after Marie and Sybille have gone off to bed, and the sun has already set, and the plates are all piled up, ready to be washed, and there are wine stains on the tablecloth; “You are a man, an adult now, it is no longer my place as your mother to tell you what to do and what not to—you are the sole master of your fate. But for _Christ's_ _sake_! Actions have consequences and repercussions! And not only upon yourself!”

Combeferre did not meet his mother's eye and contented himself of staring at an unspecific stain on the tablecloth—possibly the mustard sauce that accompanied the lentils and lard.

“I know,” he finally says.

His mother pretends she didn't hear his meaningless reply. She continues; “You men! Never will I understand you and your absurd notions of honour and pride! Why do you have to be so selfish? Your father was the same and look where that got him. Pride serves nothing when you're dead, and no legion of honour is going to restore what is gone once you've gotten yourself killed. You _know_ this.”

“I do.”

“So why would you do it anyways?” she asks, and Combeferre shrugs his shoulders. He dares, for the first time, to swiftly glance at her. There are tears coating the cornea of her eyes and glimmering in the faint candlelight. It is grotesque. Combeferre finds it far too melodramatic to his taste. He wishes she'd simply understand—he knows she does, deep down, she simply wishes to rant, it _is_ her right to do so—and yet still she is dwindling, she is bubbling on the inside but will not burst. He has recollections in his childhood of her shouting on his father. Here, she will not. She says: “You're a clever man. I know you're angry and I know you want this- _all of this_ to change for the better, but revolution...”

She stops there. Both know what she's thinking.

“I'm tired, I'm going to bed,” says Combeferre, rising from his seat, “If news from my friends do not arrive in the forthcoming week, I will head back to Paris to investigate. In the meantime, I'll stay out of your way. Perhaps it is better, for the both of us. Goodnight, mother.”

Madame Combeferre looks forlorn.

“Goodnight, my son.”

-

The routine of an injured man is simple: there is none. Nothing happens. At ten o'clock in the morning his mother walks in with the family's trusted physician who has known Courfeyrac his whole life, changes his bandages, checks the wound, performs sometimes a small puncture to make sure all of the infected blood is evacuated and doesn't spread in the rest of the body (“I've seen men who needed to get arms and legs amputated simply because the bad blood had spread and rotted their limbs; it is not a nice sight, Madame, I assure you.”). Then he is served breakfast in bed whilst two of three of his sisters read him the papers (unfortunately conservative) and tell him stories of what has been going on during his absence here in the region. Louise, one of the twins, is to be wedded soon to some cousin, the Comte de Fez, a dullard with no serious political opinions and who is content with parroting whatever is in fashion—Louise is mildly pleased. Henriette, the other twin, is being courted by a boy her age from Angers, the son of a marquis whom Courfeyrac has never heard of before, named Albert or Norbert or some name of the kind. His mother reads him the psalms they hear at church on Sunday mornings. It is all rather dull.

“Are you going to keep that?” she asks one afternoon as she sits by his side. Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Your... _beard_.”

There is a certain contempt in her voice she struggles to dissimulate.

“Why, of course mother! It took me months to grow it!”

His mother looks very conflicted and plays with the tiny pocket bible she usually keeps in her nightstand.

“It's just that with all of the commotion--” she starts before changing trajectory, “What will people say? It is not a good time to be a republican right now, my darling, you know it. And with your injury... What if it raises suspicion? What if someone denounces you?”

“Ah, my mother!” says Courfeyrac with some joviality, “You worry too much! I was merely caught in a bad hunting accident to their eyes! I have nothing to do with the insurrection! I'm far too sensible for that, am I not? And besides, what will authorities do against an aristocrat? They don't care, they're hunting the less privileged folk. I'm perfectly safe here in my lovely little childhood bed in my lovely little childhood bedroom, with my lovely little mother reading me psalms on Jesus confronting the Pharisians.”

His mother looks very doubtful but a small smile sketches itself at the corner of her lips.

“You silly boy,” she answers, before kissing his brow as if he was seven years old again, “Can I bring you anything to pass the time?”

“Marie-Thérèse promised to bring me the latest Walter Scott, but I thank you nonetheless for your offer. --Oh, wait! Maybe if you could ask Hortense to bring me figs from the garden my morale would be a little bit higher. And also if you could post this letter, it would do me a great favour.”

His mother takes the envelope upon which the incredibly suspicious name _Simon Boussingault_ is written, squeezes her son's hand and then leaves the room.

When he will get better, he will start taking dinners with the family and get some fresh air, perhaps even attend important events. His parents will probably try to convince him to start courting that shy daughter of barons, Mlle de Chambelin, a country girl who has seen nothing of the world and is thus, by the laws of the 19th century, a perfectly docile and virtuous little creature who would make a good wife. She's sixteen years old. Courfeyrac has no interest in in any of it.

In the meantime he writes his letters to his friends, devours George Sand's _Indiana_ which he hadn't gotten around to reading yet due to the frenesy of the last few months, paces around his room when no one's watching to stretch his legs, sometimes even smokes a cigarette at the window with the gardener as only witness, and then for the rest of the time, stays in bed and lets his sisters and mother coddle and pamper him as if he was no more than that little bird with its broken wing he and his sisters had nurtured and fed back to health in the Summer of 1815.

-

When news finally arrive, relief flushes over Enjolras' soul like a tidal wave. A breath he knew not he was holding escapes his body as he collapses into an armchair and gazes at the words written by his friend. Everybody is alive. Everybody is safe. Courfeyrac was the last one Enjolras was waiting for—even Grantaire has sent word, eventually, explaining he has found refuge in the north. Prouvaire is planning a trip to Italy, Bahorel may join him. Feuilly is hiding in a safe-house in Paris and is living off the solidarity of fellow workers. Joly and Lesgle have fled to Toulouse and are to be joined by their mistress, Musichetta. Combeferre is staying with his mother. And here, Courfeyrac, alive.

Enjolras almost wants to weep with relief. He does not, only a certain wetness coats his eyes as he reads and rereads the words of assurance of his last friend's well-being. He sets himself to writing an answer immediately, throwing himself before his desk and dipping his quill in the ink pot; _Courfeyrac, mon cher ami_ […]; ideas surge out of his head like a tempest cast out of darkness; he makes plans of a great reunion, of meeting someplace safe, of the rooms they can rent out by the sea, of reassurance, of quelled anguish, of the mighty fracture they have left behind in Paris, of plotting, of more plotting, and when he puts the quill down, he has written fifteen pages. His handwriting is practically illegible and the sentences are long, disconnected and jumpy. He hopes his friend can forgive him.

Yes, they shall meet again soon, he is convinced of it. Paris is healing from the murderous nights it has undergone, nights which by the order of fate should have been grandiose and bright and yet which had fallen into darkness. There had not been sufficient preparation. Paris had just gotten out of the cholera epidemic—the people, especially the working-class were still recovering, and they were the Revolution's biggest asset. There will be another opportunity, soon. Enjolras is convinced of it. Paris needs only a little shove, a little more edging, just like in 1830. When he will be reunited with his lieutenants, they will discuss this. It will all go well.

He spends the next days, weeks alone. There is comfort in solitude, in the ineffable majesty of nature; he listens to the infinite cadence of the water in the river, he watches the cloud drift as they have done since the creation of this Earth, he lets the wind touch him, embalm him in its familiar coolness, and it is an amazing feeling to know that, by the unconditional laws of physics, it has always been this way and always will be—men will experience this exact same joy in two-hundred, a thousand years, as they have two-hundred, a thousand years ago. In this simplicity, where man is confronted entirely to his surroundings and the overwhelming inexorability of nature, Enjolras feels at peace with himself. He thinks about Rousseau, he thinks about a world where there would be no need to slave off, where all land belongs to all people, where there is no talk of privatisation, of profit, of slavery, of injustice and inequality. He sees this world and he lets its beauty consume him body and soul.

At night he writes away furiously to the dismay of the entire household; his mother tells him to get some sleep, the maids fret over his well-being—Enjolras dismisses them politely; there is no time for sleep, no time for breakfast when a revolution is to be prepared. He cannot let his current situation make him waste any more time than it already has, he must prepare, he must be ready, for surely another time will come, soon, very soon. It is evident.

On some days he feels the heinous weight of discouragement creep into the marrows of his mind, not unlike a perfidious murmur; he thinks of friends, wounded, he thinks of those who have died—inevitably his mind recalls the funeral of the Général Foy in 1825 and the republican revolt that had ensued, similar in a way to what has happened this time. He had been only nineteen back then, too young to fully be integrated in the revolutionary circles, still blinded by the magnificence of Paris and its people. Bahorel, Prouvaire and Feuilly, however, had taken part in the events; that date was not a glorious one. He thinks of those four sergeants of La Rochelle, executed in Paris in September 1822, who had cried “ _Vive la liberté!_ ” as they were put to death. These people had died in all impunity before the eyes of the bourgeoisie, who had barely blinked. The bourgeoisie who, let it be reminded, owed their existence to the Tiers-État, to the sans-culottes, to the working-class and peasantry. The Trois Glorieuses were won thanks to the working-class of Paris; the bourgeoisie had simply appropriated Revolution for itself, like a parasitic vine growing onto a tree until it covers it entirely and suffocates it. Anger soon comes to replace this loathsome sense of grief.

But then Combeferre's words heal his soul; Enjolras aches to see him once again and every letter he receives is cherished and kept in his secrétaire. There is a mighty sense of justness and consolation in his sentences that give Enjolras courage and hope—his friend too sees the light of a better future.

 _Let us meet again_ , he writes him one day when the desire has become too deep, _let us find a room in Marseilles; I long to hear your voice, I want to see you once more_. Four days later, Combeferre's answer arrives; he is ready. The very next day, Enjolras sets himself to leaving his parent's pathetic estate and fleeing farther south.

-

Combeferre is relieved to finally leave his mother's house. His sisters are too. They do not say it, but the tension in the room whenever he and his mother are together is so thick, so palpable, it is evident his presence has become a burden to everyone. And so he gladly packs his bags without a word, goes in the city centre to give back a book he has borrowed from the library and buys himself a little bit of dried ham and cheese for his journey, comes home, brings his belongings down in the entry-hall and says: “Mother, I am leaving, goodbye.”

“Where to?” asks Mme Combeferre.

“I'm joining a friend in Marseilles.”

“Marseilles!”

His sisters join their mother in the hall.

“Goodbye, my brother!” says Marie, and Sybille comes to embrace him.

“And what will you do in Marseilles? Embark for Italy? North America?”

“If I'd have wanted to go to the Americas, I would have gone to Le Havre, mother,” answers Combeferre. His mother says nothing and simply crosses her arms over her chest, watching her son with dissatisfaction written all over her face. “I'm not going anywhere, I'm simply moving there for the time being. Then I will indubitably go back to Paris.”

“And what if you get caught? What will you do then?”

“I won't get caught.”

Mme Combeferre looks terribly aggrieved and distressed, so Combeferre approaches her, kisses her cheeks in an _adieu_ , embraces Marie, picks his baggage and leaves.

Marseilles is one of the golden cities of the Midi, sunkissed and glowing with the reflection of the burning southern light. The water is blue, the accent is musical and beholds a certain radiance the harsh Parisian _gouaille_ lacks. The people are friendlier and more jovial, inhabited by this warmth and familiarity one can usually find in the Mediterranean precinct. The air smells of the sea and the usual stenches of large cities, voices from all parts of the world come to meet here in this giant port, old of multiple millennia. Merchants and sailors from the entire Mediterranean and Middle East have been gathering here in this city's port to exchange, to buy and to live since the dawn of man. Marseilles is rich.

Combeferre finds Enjolras in a café on one of the main streets of the city on the morning of his arrival. His back is facing the door, his hair has caught the sunlight filtering through the window, thus giving the impression it is alit with gold. He's wearing his usual unsuspecting and unfashionable black suit, a newspaper rests by his left arm on the table, and he is drinking a coffee. Combeferre's breath catches at his sight. A waitress comes near him, inquires as to what he desires, he explains he's joining a friend, and Enjolras turns around at the sound of his voice, waving him over. The waitress takes his hat and lets him in. He joins his friend at the little table.

Enjolras, of course, is radiant. They shake hands although both ache to hold each other like brothers, and then they sit down.

“I realised whilst traveling here,” says Enjolras, “That I have not been separated from you for this long in years. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” replies Combeferre, “I'm relieved to see you're well.”

Enjolras smiles sadly. Combeferre orders a coffee for himself.

“Have you news of Courfeyrac?”

“I do,” answers Enjolras, “He's joining us as soon as he can. He's got a few affairs to sort out back at home, I believe.”

Enough is said. They drink their coffee, order a breakfast which consists of as assortment of jams made with seasonal fruit—apricots, blackberries, figs, oranges—white bread, butter, and some French, creamy cheese, accompanied by red and green grapes. The honey is sweet. Despite its simplicity, is the best breakfast Combeferre has had in a while. Having Enjolras opposite him, smiling widely, with the sunlight blurring the edges of his figure in an almost dreamlike manner only enhances this feeling of delectability and fondness. The horrors and monsters of the past months have momentarily faded away in this instant, as they sit here, in this _Café Tantale_ , enjoying this fragment of paradise.

Then they head towards the rooms madame Enjolras has rented for them, a perfectly decent little place in a modest yet quiet neighbourhood, where risks of arrests and police inspections are limited. There are two bedrooms and a main living area which serves simultaneously as a drawing and dining room. A tub is placed by the fireplace, with clean linens already set in it. Someone will make them their dinners in the evening. Everything is arranged.

“It's very strange,” he says, sitting down in one of the chairs, “How everything feels lost and yet how peaceful I feel here, with you. I had almost expected the world to come to an end with the fall of the barricades, as if the moment was so decisive, of such incredible importance that the universe would never be the same again afterwards. But life has simply resumed its flow; I find happiness in the smallest pleasures all whilst a terrible sense of grief plagues and cripples my mind with sadness and anger.”

Enjolras remains standing with an imperturbable look on his face; “I feel the same way,” he says, “In a few months, we will go back to Paris. Then we will be able to resume our activities, with albeit more precaution—the Pear, behind his airs of genuine benignity and mercy will be ruthless. Feuilly is already seeking reliable intelligence and contacts in Paris.” Combeferre half nods his head, passes a hand through his hair. Enjolras continues: “An immediate comeback is pointless; if riots had erupted everywhere following the fall of the barricades in Paris, perhaps we would have been able to do something. For now, we mostly need more organisation and informational campaigns. The working-class is in majority with the republicans. If we managed to reach the country folk, I'm certain we'd come to similar conclusions—petitions for Jeanne's release are circulating, too.”

“Do you really believe the peasantry would... ?”

“It is all a question of understanding; a Republic _is_ in their general interest.”

-

Ignominious feelings rise within when Courfeyrac is finally exempt from bed rest and has the luxury to move through the entire domain at his will and is, therefore, free to bump into his father whom he hasn't seen since Christmas in any place.

It happens on the first day he leaves his bed; it is no less than thirty-five degrees Celsius outside, and Courfeyrac is absolutely loving it. He has been aching to feel the sun upon his face once again, to feel that familiar heat seep into his clothes and stick uncomfortably to his skin. No matter the sickly paleness sought out by his peers—it doesn't suit him and he wants to claim his colours back. He has gone for a stroll by the river in light, Summer clothes and when he comes back indoors, he sneaks into the kitchens, is served a glass of water and a plate of fruit by madame Piette, and then he moves upstairs, to the living room, where he hopes to find Louise, or Henriette, or both, to try and lure them out of the house.

He walks into the living room and calls: “Loulette! The peaches are de- _li_ -cious! You _must_ try them!”

His enthusiasm is immediately crushed when he sees that Louise is in fact not in the drawing room, but instead his father is, in his usual high collars and frock coats, even in the middle of the summer, reading _Le Journal des Débats_ with his little lorgnette. He starts at the sound of his son's merry voice, narrowly saves his lorgnette from a most grievous fall, and then turns around in his seat with a supremely irritated look on his face.

“Have you no decency, boy?”

“I'm afraid I don't.”

These are the first words he shares with the man in over six months. He leaves the room after that, his morale gunned down by this most unenthusiastic encounter.

The second time is over dinner.

Marie-Thérèse, one of his older sisters, has come over with her husband and is talking about her plans to renovate their home to make it slightly more modern—they are, unlike here, living in a very out of fashion estate, with gaudy, pastel coloured wall-paper from the late 18th century, cream-coloured Louis XV and Louis XVI furniture and a very classical garden that allows very little coolness in the Summer. Marie-Thérèse wants to change all of that, by repasting the walls with deeper, more complex printed and coloured wallpaper, by buying more modern furniture made out of the rich, exotic woods that are currently in fashion, and changing the garden completely for it to be English in appearance, with many trees and wide spaces, perhaps even a couple cedars of Lebanon, and a wide, artificial pond.

“And what of the ceilings?” asks their mother, “Do you know they date back to the 15th century?”

“Well, half the ceilings have already been painted white by great-aunt Philomène, the damage has already been done. We'll probably work on building false ceilings to preserve as much heat, we're currently spending a fortune just for the central heating in the winter.”

The father intervenes; “I think it is an excellent idea, one must live with one's time, eh?”

“Exactly,” says Marie-Thérèse, “And furthermore, we simply do not want to live in a decrepit home, no matter how well it is holding for now. I wouldn't want for our children to be left with a wilting castle in thirty to forty years from now, when the wallpaper will have started to peel and the ceilings crumble, and they are left with too little money to renovate it themselves—the poor madame de Meilland is in this unfortunate situation, ever since her father was guillotined, the family has fallen in financial ruin and cannot afford to pay for the reparations on the castle; she practically lives in a ruin!”

Monsieur de Courfeyrac grumbles something unclear about the Revolution in return.

“Good heavens,” says Courfeyrac, incapable of holding his tongue any longer, “And then you wonder how revolutions come to be!”

It is needless to go into details as to what happens next; only the dinner ends rather abruptly when the father has lost his temper and the son has simply decided to react and respond, for there is only a certain tolerance one can build towards the ignorance and imbecility of man. The evening thus finishes when Courfeyrac cracks and throws his napkin on the table before leaving the table, declaring in a polite yet cold tone: “Now if you will forgive me, I see I am no longer desired at the table; by all means continue your conversation, it sounds absolutely fascinating. Marie-Thérèse, I mean you no offence, of course. Good evening, do not call me for supper.”

He takes the delightful precaution of making no noise as he lifts his chair to exit the table. The velvety wine that is served with the dinner has left a bitter taste on his tongue. It sticks to the palate like a Spanish hot chocolate. A dizziness has taken him as the repugnance overcomes him and settles somewhere, flat in his stomach—it messes with the vapours of the alcohol.

“I will let you know that you are in no position to make any commentary at the table,” says his father as he is preparing to leave, “Men have been killed for less than what you've done; you should be grateful we've accepted to let you hide here.”

“Then I promise I'll try harder next time.”

He leaves the room after this and ignores the maid Hortense, as she kindly tries to direct him to his bedroom, the way a nurse would guide a lost madman to his cell. He dismisses her and makes for the gardens instead.

It is nine o'clock in the evening and the sun has begun to set over the trees in the distance. The yellowed stones of the castle have turned pink in the delectable evening light and the orchards are painted with such bright colours they shine with a thousand fires. Courfeyrac sits on the stairs that lead from the patio to the actual garden and lights a cigarette.

As he smokes, he is suddenly filled with this familiar repugnance this place, this entire aristocratic, superficial lifestyle ridden of any sense, privileged, religious, hypocritical, cold and dead and decayed, inspires in him, and he cannot help but scrunch his face as the events that have just occurred play over in his mind, and the taste of the cigarette soon becomes bitter and unpleasant in his throat. He unties his white cravat which he has deigned to tie the bourgeois way, removes his black frock coat, passes a hand through his hair to give a semblance of artistic dishevelment, unfastens his sober waistcoat, and then sighs in relief. The bourgeois garb which even the most modern aristocrats have claimed for themselves is in itself loathsome and unfitting, a grotesque disguise in which Courfeyrac feels ill at ease. It is not him. It is not him.

He lets the nocturnal cicadas play their ode and revels in the comfortable warmth of the late evening. In an hour's time, the sky will be black and constellated with an infinity of stars. Hydra's serpentine figure will slither above his head, some distances away from Ursa Major. The moon will once more replace the sun and glow its melancholic blue light upon the world. Were he in Paris right now, he would undoubtedly be enjoying a night out with his friends, maybe drinking a bad Sauvignon with not exactly fresh sea fruit in a questionable establishment before heading out to the theatre, maybe even to a party, ready to woo everyone with his brand new waistcoat, a dashing shade of pink, threaded with gold. He figures it will not be long before he is free to go, to join his friends. His father has barely seen him and already he is annoyed with him. _Good_. In a week's time he will be in Marseilles, and he will be able to inquire on Marius' well-being without having his mail read by his parents firsthand.

When he makes it to his room, a vegetable velouté, his supper, has been placed on his desk.

-

There is something delectable in a memory; a scent, a whisper, a gesture so specific to one human being brings a certain warmth to the heart after having been separated it from it for some time. Enjolras feels thus way in the company of his friends. He feels it whilst Combeferre is seated at the small desk placed in one corner of the main room, his back arched over his writing, his immovable figure resembling a statue as he tries to finish his letter to Joly.

He says: “I know you're staring at me,” despite seemingly not paying any attention to his friend, and Enjolras lets out a delightful huff.

“Well, are you nearly finished?”

“I would be if you weren't staring.”

“Fine.”

Enjolras turns around. Two minutes later, Combeferre is done and seals the letter.

They leave their rooms; when they reach the street, the heat is already blazing despite it only being morning; it feels almost as if they have just stepped into an oven. The sharp contrast in between the dark interiors of the corridors, flights of stairs and the radiant exterior momentarily blinds them and they strut rather uselessly towards the first post office they know about (both being still quite unacquainted with Marseilles), before heading towards the rue de la Canebière, near the old port, where they're to meet Courfeyrac, who has arrived through the first diligence.

They worry very little about being controlled by the police; it is impossible to stop every single young man taking a walk on a Sunday morning in a city as crowded as Marseilles, and thus, only Paris is still engaged in this vile cat-and-mouse chase to capture identified insurgents.

The morning light is pleasant and bright and clean, making the façades of the houses glow. Misery exists even in the south, and Enjolras feels this ball in his throat at every gamin they see running by, barefoot and wearing trousers five times too big for a frame as small and brittle as theirs. The sixth of June would not have been as decisive as to abolish misery in one night, but they would have worked on it, they would have taken measures for no one to have to walk barefoot against their will, for children to go to school, for child abandonment not to be as common as it is.

They wait on one side of the rue de la Canebière. The passage is fluid, sailors, merchants, people of all classes and backgrounds come here to meet and mix in one big crowd, and thus, it takes them a moment to find Courfeyrac who is waiting on the other side of the road, waving his cane in a manner that betrays his anxiety. When he sees them cross the street and narrowly escape an omnibus, he stops, his eyebrows shoot up, a grin replaces the former blasé expression he had adopted, and already Enjolras hears him say: “Ah! My friends!”

Despite the rising heat, Courfeyrac pulls them both individually in close embraces and kisses their cheeks. His former temperament is completely erased and replaced only with a contagious smile which he is the sole master of. His light paleness testifies of his prior convalescence, but he makes up for it by dressing as finely as possible, in a strawberry pink coat, white trousers, a yellow silk cravat and a brand new waistcoat. His hat is audaciously tipped on his head to reveal just the right amount of elegant curls he has so carefully crafted, thus giving him the perfect image of the Parisian dandy. Ladies stop and turn around to better look at him. It is needless to say Enjolras and Combeferre cannot rival against him in their very sober attires.

“I've never missed you as much as I have these past weeks in all the years I have known you both,” says Courfeyrac, playing with his cane again.

“It has been some terrible weeks,” agrees Combeferre, “I'm relieved to see you're well. Is your... _you know_ , any trouble?”

“Oh, no, not at all! Gaston has been behaving wonderfully, although he has turned into an ugly little pink lump, but causes me no distress. I am one-hundred percent healed, only the family doctor, monsieur Delorme, advises me to eat a steak (medium rare) once a week to regain as much strength as possible in the shortest amount of time—oh, Enjolras! Don't pull such a face! It's for my well-being! I promise I will enjoy at least one sad, meatless meal with you, out of solidarity, for that is how good of a friend I am.”

“How gracious of you.” replies Enjolras, and his friend's grin widens even more, if such thing is even possible. “And so you've named... _it_ Gaston?”

“Yes, it is a name I rather like; I was hesitating with Léandre, but Gaston has this vivacity Léandre lacks. Don't roll your eyes like that, Combeferre, it is a perfectly fine name for an ugly pink lump on my hip. I'll show it to you when we arrive to that magnificent flat you've found and so thoroughly described in your letters, if you want— _tatata_ , I know you ache to see it, ugly as it is. I'd be surprised if anyone would ever want me in their bed again with such hideousness right there, at such a primordial spot.”

A young lady who has clearly just come out of mass judging by her white attire blushes furiously as she walks by. The old lady accompanying her scowls at the group, muttering about _young men these days; these are the sort to avoid, my girl!_

They move elsewhere after that; they find a tavern on the quai du Port that offers decent wine and fresh fish, then they walk back in the general direction of their rooms, feeling warm and happy. Courfeyrac naturally does most of the talking and tells them about a thousand different anecdotes that surge through his mind and which he has participated in during his stay in Dordogne, at his parents' estate. He paints it as a wonderful time spent with his sisters, out in the gardens, fun evenings reading his cherished romances, and when he runs out of stories to tell about these weeks spent in the Périgord, he starts talking of Marseilles, of the times he has come here, of stories he may or may not be making up as they advance, but that keep him going.

His eyes do not betray him, but Enjolras knows. He always does.

As they make it to the rented rooms, Courfeyrac removes his coat and lounges in the sofa, monopolising most of the place. He invites them to join him nevertheless, and merely lifts his legs, allowing Combeferre to sit, only to rest his legs on his friend's lap after that.

“It is very kind of Madame Enjolras to rent us this place, I must say,” he says casually, “My parents would never be as kind as to help their son in his Republicanism.”

“Both my parents are republicans, and their grandparents before them too.”

“It's surprising they manage to be so successful in their enterprise despite this. How dare people support your father's cheap porcelain industry!”

“How dare they indeed,” replies Enjolras, more quietly, “I must confess, I feel often shameful to be profiting from his wealth.”

“I say, milk the man dry! There is no ethical consumption under capitalism, you might as well exploit that wealth as much as possible for the betterment of society.”

Combeferre looks envious to say something, but he does not, and simply lets the sofa swallow him as he lays back into it, Courfeyrac's legs over him. Enjolras comes to lean onto the back of it, and, tenderly, Combeferre allows their fingers to intertwine.

“I have missed this proximity,” he says, “Solitude is grand, but I have come to see in my isolation that in truth I exist not without you.

“That is not very Rousseauist of you.”

Through the muslin curtains slide golden sunbeams that set the drifting dust alight; the heat is not so unbearable whilst indoors, and the tranquility that emanates from this small slice of heaven brings peace to Enjolras. He wishes he could cry in this moment, kiss his friends and tell them about a thousand untranslatable emotions he dares not mention, but for now he is satisfied thus way, with this shared peace, this delightful silence filled only with the voice of passengers down in the street and the eventual carriage.

“I've missed you,” says Courfeyrac after a while, “I've missed you a great lot, I've missed these moments spent together—dear God, my time away has turned me into a real sap, hasn't it?”

“You've always been a sap.”

“Pfft, wound my pride, why don't you! If you'd met Marius, you wouldn't say such a thing about _me_.”

“I have met Marius, he's also a sap. In fact I think he is rubbing off on you.”

“Ah là là, poor Marius! At least he's fairing well in Paris. He tells me his Cosette is visiting him every day; in six months they will be married at this rate. I sure hope we'll all be invited. And that he makes me his first man. I deserve as much. Oh! How much that boy has grown! I met him when he was eighteen, a mere child, and now he's getting married! I feel not unlike a proud mother.”

A smile sketches itself onto Enjolras' lips. Courfeyrac ceases his talking and falls back into this familiar silence. They move only when one begins to develop cramps and another gets bored, and another hungry, and then they set out to find a place to eat all whilst talking about politics through metaphors that only grow in increasing complexity at every new addition; soon it is impossible to make sense of any of the gibberish that is uttered, and their conversation becomes mindless speaking. It is not half as bad.

After Enjolras pays for dinner, they walk through the city, disoriented and careless, and then they find their way towards the port. They look at the boats and the sailors for a moment before befriending a young man with similar political opinions to theirs. Then they head back towards their chambers when the night begins to set, they talk again of Paris, they talk of what has happened. They talk of a great many feelings that thus far have remained unspoken and which they would have never dared speak about to anyone else; they debate upon who should get a bed and who should have the sofa—eventually Enjolras convinces Combeferre to share a bed with him, and Combeferre accepts, pretending to be reluctant about it but not truly minding. Courfeyrac, who therefore has the other bed all to himself, acts outraged that he is thus excluded from this friendly bedly gathering, and so they squeeze into one bed, until they realise how absurd this is and how far too warm it is to engage in such preposterous sleeping arrangements.

In the morning they enjoy the mellow feeling of a good night's sleep and waking up to the sunlight, and the coffee tastes wonderful, for it is Italian. Enjolras smiles and closes his eyes when one of his friends wraps their arms around his shoulders. For now, he is content.


End file.
